


Watching

by orphean



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 04:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11501559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: Barry finds old security footage on Harrison's work computer. He sees more than he anticipates. Harrison/Hartley, one-sided Barry/Harrison, Barry/Hartley. Voyeurism.'Harrison Wells and Hartley Rathaway. Of course. It was strange to see him without his Pied Piper garb, in a crisp shirt and knotted tie instead of chunky boots and green LED gloves. Hartley was annoyed, body tightly wound with frustration. Harrison was a few steps behind, his gait light, focused. Maybe Harrison had kept a record of his scientific discussions? Barry couldn’t see what else it could be.'





	Watching

‘Are you guys  _ ever _ going to deal with this trash?’ Harry was standing in Harrison Wells’ office, looking around, hands on his hips.

‘Well, you know, he was evil. We’re all still trying to get over that.  _ Your  _ face isn’t helping.’ Cisco was shouting from the other room, one eye on the computer monitor, most of his attention on a game of Pac-Man.

‘Right now you’ve got a shrine for a crazed psychopath,’ Harry remarked, checking drawers, pocketing nice pens.

‘He is right,’ Barry admitted. ‘We could use that space for something more useful. Maybe I should just throw everything away.’

Cisco, who had lost the game, turned to look at Barry and Harry.

‘Not his laptop, though. He’s from the future, maybe he has some cool science stuff in there. Maybe there’ll be something about if  _ Firefly _ ever returns.’ He put his hands together in a facade of prayer.

‘I’ll do it,’ Barry hoisted the laptop under his arm. ‘Do you know the password?’

‘His password to lock up the entire building was B1gBellyBurg3r, so try that. I’ll call you if crime goes down.’

‘Cool, cool. I’ll be downstairs. Let you know if I find anything.’

 

* * *

 

The password was, to Barry’s surprise, correct. He started looking through files, searching for anything useful. He had brought with him a flashdrive to which he transferred any documents that looked like it would be worth reading, after which he deleted them from the computer. There was a lot to go through, and after fifteen minutes, he felt like he had barely made a dent. The folder names were long and complex, the file names even worse. Barry rubbed his eyes and took another sip of coffee. Then he noticed one folder that offered a stark contrast. Its two-letter title,  _ HR _ , was utterly at odds with the other names. Barry clicked it, and once the laptop had booted the screen, he realised that it was a folder of videos. Around a dozen in all, the thumbnails were blurry and the names consisted of numbers. Dates. The most recent one a couple of months before the particle accelerator exploded, the oldest several years earlier. What was this? Frowning, he selected one of the oldest video and let it load.

It was security camera footage. He knew the place – inside S.T.A.R. Labs, just outside of Harrison’s office. Barry heard voices, growing in strength, approaching the work area.

‘It’s not working yet?’ Harrison’s voice, raspy and dulcet at the same time, full of barely contained amusement.

‘No, like I said. The ionic resonators are not conducting the energy as they should.’ Barry knew he had heard that voice before, but he couldn’t place it. A man’s voice, lighter than Harrison’s, but echoing the gravel. ‘I’ve run every test I can think of and it just won’t parse.’

Two men had come into view. Harrison Wells and Hartley Rathaway. Of course. It was strange to see him without his Pied Piper garb, in a crisp shirt and knotted tie instead of chunky boots and green LED gloves. Hartley was annoyed, body tightly wound with frustration. Harrison was a few steps behind, his gait light, focused. Maybe Harrison had kept a record of his scientific discussions? Barry couldn’t see what else it could be.

‘Have you accounted for the Liechtenstein principle?’

‘I know, you’ve  _ said _ , but the Liechtenstein principle isn’t relevant, it doesn’t affect anything here.’ Hartley turned and spat the words, every syllable laced with irritation.

Two short steps and Harrison was in front of him, towering over him. One of Harrison’s hands was in Hartley’s hair, roughly snapping his head back, the other hand on his throat, pushing up against his jaw.

‘It  _ is  _ relevant, Hartley, and what have I said about using that tone with me?’ Harrison’s voice, dripping with ice, with anger. More Eobard than Wells.

Hartley’s face was half-hidden, but Barry could see how he bit his lip, how his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. Barry had a sinking feeling that this wasn’t records of scientific discussions, but he found himself fixed in place, unable to pause the video, unable to close the computer. His eyes were locked on the events unfolding onscreen, years ago.

‘What are you going to do? Are you going to punish me?’ Hartley’s voice was a growl. Barry felt his stomach twist despite himself.  _ Oh no _ .

‘It looks like I’ll have to, won’t I?’ Harrison spoke calmly as he twisted his hand, further forcing Hartley’s head back. He leaned down and breathed onto his neck. Hartley shuddered against the breath, letting out a slight whimper.

‘Do your worst.’

A movement, and Hartley was flung against the glass wall of the office. (Barry remembered a crack in the glass, a crack he had always wondered about.) Harrison paced in front of him as he gathered himself, as he staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his lip. His glasses had been knocked off in the fall; his eyes seemed unfocused, blurred.

‘Is that it? Is that your worst?’ Hartley gave a laugh and his face twisted in pain, one hand darting to his side. Harrison moved close, and whispered something in his ear. Barry, despite himself, moved closer to the screen, straining to hear. No, it was too quiet. ‘Oh no no no no, don’t you dare. Don’t you dare go  _ soft  _ on me.’ Hartley was pleading and taunting in equal measure.

Harrison’s mouth was upon Hartley’s, pushing him against the glass, hands on his face, in his hair, pushing against him, biting, clawing. Hartley responded with equal ferocity, hands on his shoulders, digging nails into his shirt, every breath stolen between kisses laced with swearing and begging.  _ Please, fuck, oh, God, fuck, I want you to –, Christ Almighty, please, please, fuck please _ . He was perched on his toes to reach Harrison’s lips, to lick the blood off, to bite, to keen. Harrison moved a hand and hoisted him up, Hartley’s legs wrapped around his waist, his hands gripping Harrison’s shirt collar, desperately pushing him closer.

Barry shouldn’t be watching this. He really, really, shouldn’t be. This was something very private, very much not for his eyes. And he shouldn’t ( _C_ _ hrist,  _ he shouldn’t ) be affected by this; this shouldn’t get him hard. He had never thought about men that way, he had never thought about Harrison that way. (This was a lie, he knew it. He had often thought of Harrison’s beautiful hands, the way he meted out his smiles and praise. He had wondered how he could show his devotion, what Harrison would allow him. But this was nothing he had ever imagined would be allowed, nothing he would have allowed himself.) 

He watched – in awe, in shame, in deep arousal – as Harrison carried Hartley to the closest desk, as they cleared the desk with careless movements, faces still close, whispering promises Barry couldn’t hear. He stared at Hartley watching Harrison – his back against the camera now –  disentangle himself, hands trailing down his body, his fingers working with his pants, unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping. Kneeling for the boy, taking in hand, taking in mouth. Hartley’s face –  _ oh god _ , Hartley’s face. Transformed, he no longer wore that mask of arrogance and contempt that Barry had known, but his face full of wonder, his eyes bright with gratitude – with love.

Emotions chased over Hartley’s face, changing and shifting; serenity to eagerness, from eagerness to unbearable, unbridled need. He pressed one hand over his eyes, the other he pressed into desk, digging his fingers against the wood, white with the strain. He was shaking and shivering, a stream of _ fuck please yes fuck fuck _ and incoherent mumbling coming out of his mouth. He bit his lip, bleeding again; he tried to buck his hips but was restrained by Harrison’s hand against his hip bone. Barry could see how he, moment by moment, was falling further undone, how he was unravelling fast. (He wondered how he had felt in that moment, and if he would ever feel like that.)

‘ _ Christ,  _ Harrison, if you don’t –’

‘If I don’t what?’ Harrison had untangled himself and was stooped over Hartley now, one hand holding him down, fingers splayed over his clavicle bone, one hand tracing down his chest. Hartley was writhing under the touch, seeking friction. ‘Did you really think I’d make you come already? Surely you don’t think I’m done with you yet?’ 

‘ _ Serva me, servabo te _ .’ Barry didn’t know what the words meant, but he was drawn in by the rolling  _ r _ s, the way Hartley’s mouth shaped the syllables. Harrison, however, understood and he laughed, darkly, fingers gripping Hartley’s tie.

‘It’s far too late for me,’ he said and pulled Hartley up, into another kiss, a kiss so deep that it looked as though he tried to consume him, as though he was dying and Hartley was the only antidote. (Barry wondered if Harrison would have ever kissed him like that.) As Hartley, hands on Harrison’s chest, whimpered into the kisses, twisted himself deeper, Harrison pulled away. He ran his fingers through Hartley’s hair, down his face. Hartley leaned into touch, his mouth open in supplication. Long fingers entering his mouth, his eyes locked on Harrison, his face in rapture. (Barry didn’t think he had ever seen such submissive satisfaction before; he had never imagined the appeal of such desire.) Harrison’s voice, a thousand shards of broken glass in syrup. ‘On your knees. Now.’

Harrison navigated Hartley in position, directed him with tugs and pulls at his tie, fingers grasped around the knot, pushing into his throat. Leaning against the corner of the desk, Hartley getting on his knees below him, it looked for a split second like Harrison glanced up at the security camera. Surely he hadn’t done that? Then his eyes were on Hartley, his hand in his hair, watching him and his quick nimble fingers. Hartley was looking up, lips pressed tight, eyes bright.

‘My golden boy,’ Harrison whispered the words, a fond smile on his lips. His fingers played through his hair; Hartley closed his eyes and exhaled a rattled breath. (Had Hartley always been this beautiful? Barry couldn’t remember.)

‘This is not your worst,’ Hartley complained, petulant. Barry realised that the growl he had always heard in Hartley’s voice wasn’t natural – it was affected. It was an imitation of Harrison, but now, it was gone, his voice softer, pleading, teasing.

‘I’ll make you suffer, I promise.’ Harrison ran his hand down Hartley’s face, fingers scratching at skin. ‘But it will be worse if you keep talking.’

Hartley grinned, impish and coy, but when he opened his mouth, it was not to speak. ( _ Oh God _ , thought Barry, eyes fixed on screen.  _ Oh god _ .  _ I should not, should not, should  _ not  _ be watching this _ .) Hartley’s hand, fingers splayed against the bottom of Harrison’s chest, pushing his shirt out of the way. Hartley’s tongue, grazing the head of Harrison’s cock, slow, teasing licks. Hartley’s lips, closing down, swallowing deeper. Harrison’s hand, slender fingers tousling hair, directing without words, pulling him closer, forcing himself further in. Harrison’s silence, Hartley’s choking moans.

(Barry’s knuckles in his mouth, biting hard, desperate not to touch himself, his resolve weakening with every second.)

And Hartley –

‘Hey Barry, you there?’ Cisco’s voice crackled through his earpiece. Barry slammed the laptop shut and activated his intercom. ‘We’ve got an ATM robbery going down at Congress and Fifth. You good taking it on?’

‘Uhh, yeah. Just gimme a second, I’ll be there.’

When he was younger, Barry had many times dreamt that he was naked in school and he would always wake up heart racing and sweat pouring. (He had been told this was a common anxiety dream, and it was nothing to be worried about.) Now, he felt the exact same way he had always felt in those dreams: exposed, embarrassed, humiliated. He grabbed the suit without stopping. He was certain that if he looked at the team, they would see the shame on his face, the transgression. He couldn’t face Harry ( _ god _ , not with that face), no matter that he was from another Earth and a completely different man. He chased down the robbers (small timers, nothing difficult) and delivered them to CCPD, not bothering to stop. All the while, the images of what he’d seen – Harrison’s hands, Hartley’s mouth, the rough kisses and the way their bodies moved in perfect sync – flashed through his mind, giving him no peace.  _ Stop thinking about it _ . But he couldn’t, and it was all he could see before his inner eye when he came back to the Labs, when Cisco asked how it went, when he hid behind a desk and tried to play it cool.

‘Did you find anything on the laptop?’ Cisco asked, spinning his chair.

Barry scratched his head, looked away, hoped the heat that was spreading from his toes to his hair was just in his mind, and not a real blush.

‘Yeah, I dunno yet. I was thinking I might take it home tonight and go through the rest of it? I’ve got an early meeting at CCPD tomorrow, so I think I gotta head back home now, so…’

If Cisco noticed the awkwardness in his words, he didn’t say anything. Caitlin smiled at him.

‘You’ve done great today, Barry. Have a nice evening.’

Cisco lifted an arm in farewell, and Barry went home, the laptop heavy in his bag.

 

* * *

 

At home, Barry locked the door and put the laptop on his desk. He sat in his desk chair, kicked off his shoes, threw his bag across the room. He shouldn’t open the laptop. Really, really, shouldn’t. And yet, his fingers reached out to open it. It wouldn’t hurt to finish the video, would it? If he didn’t let it affect him, he could do it. Right?

Oh, it was a bad, bad idea. He flipped the laptop open.

The video had skipped ahead; the angle had shifted. ( _ Why _ , wondered Barry, finger hovering over the back arrow, but reluctant to move, reluctant to allow himself that. What had he missed?) Hartley was perched on the edge of desk, naked now, his mouth wet, his hair a mess. Harrison stood in front of him, looping a length of cloth – the tie, Barry realised –  around Hartley’s wrists. Hartley’s eyes flit from Harrison’s face to the fingers tightening the knot; his breath was heavy and an excited smile played over his lips. (Why did Hartley want this? Barry didn’t understand, and he couldn’t understand why his stomach dropped at his grin, mischievous and imploring.)

Hartley pulled Harrison closer, fingers hooked in his shirt. As he worked the buttons, bound hands making slow work of it, Harrison leaned in, whispering in Hartley’s ear, fingers running up and down his thighs. Hartley laughed at words Barry couldn’t hear, a goading and beseeching sound; Hartley shivered at Harrison’s touch, eyes closed and breath short. Once he finished unbuttoning the shirt, Hartley leaned his head back, meeting Harrison’s gaze, again biting his lip, again begging without a word.

Harrison caught Hartley’s face in his hands, kissing, claiming, devouring. Hartley shifted closer, bound fingers running down Harrison’s chest. His delighted moans turned to a disappointed whimper when Harrison pulled away, ran his fingers through his hair, kissed his forehead.

‘Lie down, be good. I’ll be back in a moment.’

Harrison pushed away, took off his shirt (a flash of skin that made Barry’s stomach clench) and moved out of view. Hartley lay down on the desk, stretching like a lion in the sun. His naked body, pale and flushed in turns; his erection, straining and slick. Barry was unable to look away, at the eager and easy way Hartley displayed his body, at how he spread himself in waiting. His head cocked to the side, looking in the direction where Harrison had disappeared.

‘Are you sure it’s the Liechtenstein principle that’s missing?’ His voice, quibbling, teasing, craving. He tried his restraints and smiled when they would not budge.

‘Yes, if you use Liechtenstein the formula will work. And I thought I told you to be good? If you’re not, I will leave.’

Hartley squirmed, languid and waiting.

‘You won’t, I know you won’t.’ He lolled his head, grinning to himself. ‘I can see you, you’re just aching to come back and fuck me.’

Barry considered, not for the first time, throwing the laptop through his window.

‘Hartley, you’re not wearing your glasses, so I highly doubt you can see me.’ Hartley made a face, and Barry realised for the first time how young he was, that he had to be in his very early twenties. Younger, probably, than Barry had been when he first met Harrison Wells. And yet, he was so much more, knew so much more. ‘But you  _ are _ correct. I do want to fuck you.’

( _ I do want to fuck you _ . The Harrison Barry had known, the Harrison Barry had understood, had been a being of knowledge and calm, but he had also been a lie. Was this how he really had been? Was this the real – fake – Harrison Wells? Barry shifted in his seat, tried to not acknowledge his own erection, tried not to think about what this was doing to him.)

Harrison came back into view, all sinew and flesh, Hartley’s glasses in one hand. Barry bit his thumb and tried to think of cloud formations.  

‘Your glasses, for when I’m done with you.’ He placed them at the top of the desk, reaching over Hartley’s head, his hand brushing over skin as he reached down, as he grabbed his hips and pulled him closer. Hartley bucked into the touch, wrapped his legs around his waist, hooked his bound hands around Harrison’s neck, hoisted himself up to a sitting position. Skin on skin, and though it was years ago, Barry could almost  _ see _ the current passing between them.

‘I hope you’ll never be done with me, Harrison,’ he murmured, his voice soft, tender, loving.

‘Never,’ Harrison promised.

Kisses – unhurried, deep, delicate kisses. Hartley’s fingers, tracing along Harrison’s jawline, ever-moving, ever-touching. Harrison’s hands, down Hartley’s back, down his arms, on his face, in his hair. Then fingers grabbing, fingers gripping; Hartley’s head pushed back again, neck exposed. Harrison, a viper ready to strike.

‘Hartley, what do you want?’ Harrison's voice, gravel wrapped in velvet. Hartley whimpered, overcome.   
  
‘I want you,’ he said, eyes on Harrison, pleading, begging, needing. ‘I want your hands and your mouth and your cock. I want you inside me; I want you in every way. I want you to fu–’   
  
The screen went black.

Just for a second it stayed black, then the video player closed and the folder with the video files appeared again. By now, Barry understood what they were. He shut the laptop, a knot still twisting in his stomach, and flopped onto his bed.

He felt rotten to the core. He shouldn’t have opened the file, he shouldn’t have started watching, he shouldn’t have  _ kept  _ watching when he was given an out. It was private, it was wrong, it was  _ not for him _ . And yet. Hartley’s face. Harrison’s hands. Two bodies in one accord in a way he had never seen, never experienced. He was fascinated, aroused, jealous. Would Harrison had allowed him that? Could he ever make Hartley squirm like that? Was it that he wanted them, or wanted to be them? Hartley’s pleading, the words that were cut off, the words that still reverberated in his mind.  _ I want you to fuck me _ .

Barry know he shouldn’t,  _ God _ , he should know better, but he slid his hand beneath his cotton briefs and closed his eyes. Slow, short tugs (Harrison pulling Hartley’s hair; Hartley talking back) that grew faster, longer (Hartley on his knees; Harrison’s languid ease) that grew desperate, frantic (Harrison’s hands on Hartley; Hartley’s naked body, aching for release). And coming, coming hard, Hartley’s smile flashing in his mind, Harrison’s voice echoing in his ears.

Barry lay in sweat, cum and shame and wondered what he should do. Delete the videos, pretend he never knew about them? Return them to Hartley? He thought he understood better, now, why Hartley had been so mad, so cruel. So heartbroken. Yes, he would meet him, and he would let Hartley decide what to do. Barry would look at Hartley, and he would see the person, not the mess of barely-restrained desire, passion, need. He would see Hartley as who he is, not who he was, the boy desperate for the man that broke them both.

Well, he would try.


End file.
